(CG) Round Four

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The dark gentleman stood looming over her in silence with his arms tucked behind his back, watching her as she mopped up the piddle puddle, embarrassingly on hands and knees. The girl grumbled as she sopped up the mess in painful agony, wanting so much to look up at his smug face, but she was far too humiliated to even lift her head. Instead, she scrubbed at the rough floor, trying to will the wetness to disappear, and with it, her shame. This did not happen, of course, and the discoloration of damp concrete only seemed to grow, until she was wiping closer to him. For a mere moment, the bashful girl let her hand brush against his boot; the soft oiled leather sent shivers through her, erupting from where it came in contact with her pinkie finger.

If he noticed, he made no indication of such as he turned to return to the head of the table once the clean-up was complete. The girl whimpered as she rose to her feet aquiver, steadying herself on the table edge. Her vision seemed strangled, as if staring far off into the distance through a tube. Several minutes passed as the girl fruitlessly tried to clear her head; as the fog drifted from her mind, the sudden awareness of her situation astounded her: she was about to begin another round, with more than half the game to go. She inhaled deep, holding back her tears as she took her position. A shiny box caught her attention as her arms stretched before her; a hatbox in silver wrapping with a large number three scribbled on it sat beside the previously won prizes.

No sooner were her feet on the pegs did she absentmindedly mutter, “Three,” having just seen the digit. Her lips quickly clamped shut and she tried to spy if he had heard the utterance, but it was obviously too late; more over, his deliberate smirk indicated he was aware of her slip up.

“Three it is,” he said as he took the top card, peering at it with a chuckle. The Five of Diamonds fell to the discard pile, taunting her into frustration. “My five with your three make eight strikes. Which instrument will you experience this time?” his words were measured, exacting that she felt them to her very core. She wanted so much to quit. So much, that she was sure that if she opened her mouth, only her surrender would come out.

“Black jack,” left her lips to her confusion. The girl glared at him as if the demented sorcerer had cast a spell on her tongue, but she knew better. No doubt, he was some sort of a magician, able to twist the reality around him to suit his desires, able to manipulate her emotions to work against herself, able to turn exquisite pain into seductive pleasure. As she watched him collect the toy she had decided upon, she knew she wasn't quitting because of herself. This was for her, and damn the sadist, she would see it to the end; if she was able.

“Interesting choice,” his voice held all the mirth of Satan claiming a sinner's eternal soul. The rustling of swift movements blew the wind past her, but he was too quick with it for her to tell what it was, just that it had a peculiar sound, like fronds beating against each other in the wind. “You have picked one of your preferred toys, although a more cruel variation. This is a flogger, of course,” his arm extended forward, proffering her a view of the item, its long falls dangling inches from her face. “The strands are about 30 inches long, made from thick, but flexible, rubber. It would be extremely thuddy, except the falls are cut zigzagged, rather than straight,” he passed his fingers through it as if thick tresses of hair, showing off its exotic texture. “This causes it to have a distinct sensation, like being ground up or sheared. It can feel quite abrasive and coarse, very atypical of the common flogger.”

The dark gentleman spun the instrument around himself effortlessly as he took his position directly behind her. The flogger danced around him in sinewy commotion; graceful and deliberate, but the strands rattled and twisted deviously, the churning of blades in a blender. The sound intimidated her; she was about to step buttocks-first into a meat grinder. The heat of his palm settling on her lower back restored some of her resolve, at least. That was until he began his practiced preamble, “This is going to hurt, perhaps more so for the abuse your ass has already endured. You may cry, scream, and cuss. You can curse me, even. Do not move from that spot. Count loud and clear.”

The tumultuous swoosh was her only alert to the incoming flagellation. As the flogger found its mark, it was as if thousands of tiny, razor-sharp teeth had viciously attacked her bottom, gnashing and tearing at her raw flesh in back swing. She shouted “One,” although more out of anger than pain. It grated at her, made her want to swat at the small beasties chomping at her bum. The next strike caught her unexpectedly from the other angle, focused more on the opposite cheek. It shocked her; not like the stun gun, of course, but in a more primal way which caused her to bite her lip for a few seconds before saying, “Two.” Closing her eyes tight, she imaged the sensation similar to being slowly eaten by a school of piranha as the next hit pulled her to one side. He was swinging the flogger in front of him, alternating from each side to better balance the strike pattern, leaving her little time to cry out “Three” before the next thrash. The girl's eyes misted over, shimmering in the lamplight, and her voice sounded hoarse as she squealed, “Four!”

His movement was calculated, body swaying with the swing back and forth to maximize the impact yet minimize his effort. As he leaned forward, the hits only intensified, jostling the girl's pained ass from each side, the strikes alternating across her bottom. “Five,” her count continued, picking up speed to match his momentum. “Six!” The licks felt like a cheese grater or a thorny thicket slapping her ass. She wanted to cry, but the tears weren't there; rather, the conflagration spreading across her flesh acted to evaporate them, causing her blood to boil and body to steam. “Seven!” She was aroused and upset because of it. She wanted to cum so badly that she was bucking her hips with his rhythm, “Eight!”

Then, it stopped. The girl was left writhing and mewing as the sadist returned the toy. She watched him with the best come-fuck-me eyes she could muster, but he seemed oblivious. “Another round completed, you may move,” was his only response in a somewhat dispassionate tone. Carrying another hatbox wrapped in shiny paper, the number four marked on the sides, he returned to his spot with his deck of cards, placing the prize with the others won.

The girl stood frustrated for a romp; although her legs shaky, they were able to hold her upright. She brought her hands to rub her butt. Instead of soothing the agony she felt, simply touching the flesh caused her breath to catch. She wasn't sure if she could sit down, and was suddenly glad that wasn't a requirement. Lightly grazing the raised abrasions within the wounded area with her fingertips, it dawned on her: the Bastard had tenderized her ass! It irritated her how wet that made her pussy, and she blushed feeling his cold stare take in her naked form.

“Half done,” his words snapped her mind back to the game, just before her fingers found her outer labia in their idle caress. “Do you need a few minutes, or shall we continue?”